GtJtisttne JJertc FRED LOCKLEY RARE WESTERN BOOKS 4227 S. E. Stark St. PORTLAND 15, ORE. UCSB LIBRARY 7 I PROSE SKETCHES AND VERSE CHRISTINE LEETE COLLINS Collection THE BLAIR-MURDOCK COMPANY SAN FRANCISCO 1913 THIS PUBLICATION, OF A FEW VERSES AND PROSE SKETCHES OF MRS. COLLINS, IS OFFERED TO HER FRIENDS WITH A FEELING THAT THEY WILL VALUE IT AS A MEMORIAL OF HER WHO WAS ALWAYS READY TO DO ALL IN HER POWER FOR THEIR HAPPINESS. DEDICATED TO LAUREL HALL CLUB OF WHICH CHRISTINE LEETE COLLINS WAS A CHARTER MEMBER 1 CAN BUT FEEL THAT WHEN THE GRASS GROWS OVER ME, IF I SHALL HAVE MADE SOME LIFE THE BETTER FOR MY LIVING, MY OWN WERE NOT EMPTY OR USELESS OR LOST. Fnm "An April Day's Refltcthn." TRIBUTE OF LAUREL HALL CLUB. . CHRISTINE LEETE COLLINS, a charter member of Laurel Hall Club, a past president and dearly beloved friend, has been called to her home in the life beyond, be it fc,tj8oU)fD, That we, the members of Laurel Hall Club, thus formally present our tribute of love to the memory of her whose passing has made vacant a place that can never be filled; That to those associated with her in the close bond of club membership, her sterling womanly qualities, and her loyal and sympathetic nature, were a continual blessing. She lived on the sunny side, radiating naught but love; That Laurel Hall Club has not only suffered the separation from a beautiful soul, but the loss of a brilliant mind as well, whose exquisite thoughts on Nature and on Life, and whose rare wit were ever a delight and inspiration; That, as a memorial of the beauty and sweetness of her char- acter, we erect to her a monument of loving thoughts. &tOltotD, That these resolutions be spread upon our records, and a copy be sent to the family, with whom we express our tenderest sympathy in their bereavement. I cannot say, and I will not say, That she is dead: She is just away; With a cheery smile and a wave of the hand, She has wandered into an unknown land ; And left us thinking how very fair It needs mast be since she lingers there. BY THE COMMITTEE OF LAUREL HALL CLUB MRS. W. R. PARNELL, HARRIET H. GRAY, MARY SETCHEL HAIGHT CHRISTINE LEETE COLLINS. CHRISTINE LEETE, A LINEAL DESCENDANT OF THE SEVENTH COLONIAL GOVERNOR OF CONNECTICUT, WAS BORN IN CLINTON, CONNECTICUT, JULY 1, 1849. SHE CAME TO CALIFORNIA WITH HER PARENTS IN 1856. GRADUATING FROM LAUREL HALL SEMI- NARY, SHE BECAME A TEACHER IN THE SAN FRANCISCO SCHOOLS. IN 1877 SHE MARRIED THOMAS W. COLLINS, AND FOR THIRTY-FIVE HAPPY YEARS DEVOTED HERSELF TO HER HUSBAND AND THEIR FOUR SONS. BY THE SIMPLICITY AND SINCERITY OF HER CHAR- ACTER, BY HER KINDLY SPIRIT, AND HER RARE GIFT OF EXPRESSION, SHE WON A LARGE CIRCLE OF TRUE FRIENDS. SHE BREATHED HER LAST, AFTER A VERY BRIEF ILLNESS, IN HER BUNGALOW AT LARKSPUR, CALIFORNIA. ON MAY 25, 1912. CONTENTS. IN MEMORY OF A FRIEND - - 9 MEMORY'S OFFERING 12 ONLY 14 THAT SUMMER RAY 16 MY BUNGALOW 18 THE FUTURE JO IN MEMORIAM McKINLEY 22 BETSY BUMBLE - 24 AN APRIL DAY'S REFLECTION 29 THE CONVERSION OF AN UNBELIEVER 38 OVER THE MOUNTAINS 39 THE CRITIC'S GUILLOTINE 45 AN ALASKAN OUTING . . 48 IN MEMORY OF A FRIEND. [In response to the toast, " Our Founder," at an evening reception given by the Laurel Hall Club to its President, Mrs. I. Lowen- berg.] As we sometimes shut the door of the world to gaze upon the dear old face that has smiled above our infancy, so I ask you to turn aside a moment from festivity and song, while one who knew her well, lays in loving gratitude these simple flowers upon her grave. She was woman's friend, than which no higher tribute could be paid. With her no ambition was too lofty for woman's attainment, and yet no task so lowly but that woman's honest hand gave it dignity and charm. With a keen insight into another's latent capabilities, she sought the culti- vation of the one talent, and discouraged the slow wasting from disuse of what might prove a woman's higher existence. Her life was not like the gentle passing of a stream through summer meadows. A great sor- row darkened her sun at noon, but when it shone again, it warmed a nature sweeter grown by tears ; so we who knew her early loved her better in her later days. Meeting discouragements often, she was never discouraged, and her greatest ambition was for the rearing of, not worldly women, not too wise women, but womanly women, fitted to be the mothers of men. She lived in advance of IN MEMORY OF A FRIEND. her time, and what we then often thought due to some erratic mood, we find to have been but the prophecy of the future; so though the pages of her life are closed, we, who did not then un- derstand, read the lines anew and live out their mystery. When the sun was just beginning to tinge the rim of green years with yellow and she most longed for activity and strength, the dial ceased to cast a shadow so she sleeps. In the aftermath of this association when we fold our hands with quiet satisfaction upon the honors which glow upon its gathered years, we may go wandering back into its early spring time. Then we shall acknowledge the hand which planted the tiny seedlet whose roots have encom- passed such a harvest. May we be grateful enough to say, "Honor to her to whom honor is due," and drop the tear of re-awakened memory and still keep the laurels green upon her grave. OUR FOUNDER. Ah, well a day! the roses blow Upon thy modest tomb, And nodding grasses, wild and sweet, Thatch o'er thy silent home. The birds, through the golden summer, Perch on the lichened stone, And burst their throats with gladness, As though thou wert not gone. 10 IN MEMORY OF A FRIEND. Sleep on, dear dreamer, thy unbroken sleep, Naught can disturb thy rest; The talking leaves, the wild birds' call, The wintry winds' behest. The vague regret of passing voice, The drone of hovering bee, Each makes its plaint above thy grave; It matters naught to thee. ii MEMORY'S OFFERING. East stretched the meadows' withered green With a dark blue line of waves between; West, stood the poplars towering high, Their ragged tops against the sky And walnut woods, in crimson dressed, The touch of autumn's hand confessed. Prophetic of the bitter blight That freezes summer's warmest light, Came leaden shadows trailing over Sunless fields of faded clover. On the south there spread the lonesome reach Of white drift sands blown on the beach; While northward, lay the dusty road Winding by many a loved abode, Into the quiet New England town On its sheen of waters looking down. With a peace to modern days denied, The village stood in its rustic pride; Its broad, brown streets concisely lined By happy homes of humble kind, Whose dormer windows stood far out, Like great-eyed sentinels faced about. 12 MEMORY'S OFFERING. The gable roofs like a broken floor Abruptly sloped to meet the door, Over whose portals softly strayed The dimpled child and busy maid; But half concealed from the streets ill-bred By grape vine crossings, nature-led. No passion storms in those quiet lives; No bitter fruit from sacrifice; No lives whose toils for needful gain Had upwards gathered only pain; But the helpful song through all renewed And retrospection smoothly viewed; One even thread of quiet care, With skies of blue spread everywhere. If temptation came and overcast The soul to make its strength more fast, No yielding to the tempter's tone And drifting out from God alone, But prayers to heal the bruised reed, Uttered in faith that He would heed. ONLY. Only the flush of a sunset At the close of a summer day, Touching with dreamy beauty The hills in the far away. Only a robin singing, Calling a sweet love note Among the leafy murmurings, On the summer winds afloat. Only a form in the shadow, Fresh and girlish and fair, With a sunbonnet silently falling From the wind-swept waves of hair. Only a face at the fence bar, Wistful and sad and sweet, Looking out into the sunset And over the fields of wheat. Only the lips all aquiver, Trembling with passionate pain, Striving to keep back the sobbing, Sobbing unto the grain That is only so sleepily nodding In the hush of the dying day, Keeping low, sweet time with the robin, Singing his roundelay. 14 ONLY. Only the piteous folding Of the pleading hands in prayer, While the closing flower cups listen, In dewy silence there. Only the old, old story, Of a nature misunderstood, And a young heart learning in sorrow The lesson of womanhood. Only the flush of a sunset, Faded and passed away, Leaving the lonesome hillside Brown in the far away. Only a brooding silence On upland and field and river, Save where the cries of the owlet Through the long sedge grasses quiver. Only a wearied robin, Asleep in its leafy retreat, And a drooping form in the twilight Leaving the fields of wheat. THAT SUMMER RAY Have you ever sat when the winds swung low, Through the quivering heat of the summer's glow, With folded hands in a darkened room And silently watched in the sultry gloom, A line of light where the specks of dust Settled and fell like a golden rust? Have you ever remembered the old sweet times When the blossoms clung thick to the scented vines, When the snows of December were leaves of June, To the heart whose chords were ever in tune, As you watched the dust through the shutters chink In that golden sun-line sift and sink? Did you ever sigh for the old content That came as a child, as a woman went, When nature was full of sweet surprise For every glance of childish eyes ; When the meadow, the mountain, the wood and the sea, Was each the most beautiful thing that could be? Did you ever sigh for this old content As the sun through your chamber his golden glint sent? 16 THAT SUMMER RAY. Do you ever forget when you're dreaming so, That the winters must come and the summers go; That the tireless hands uplifted to prove Necessity's strength or the sweetness of love, Must fall over-wrought in a useless way, And lie patiently folded some day, some day; As you watch that line in a darkened room Shimmer and shoot aslant the gloom? Did you ever think that this line of light, That falls on the carpet so warm and bright, May be like a hope that with shining mark Illumines a spot where life lies dark, And that the soul through the passing years Is greater made by its burden of tears? You must have thought so when that drifting beam Divided the darkness with golden gleam. Oh, quivering beam, through the shutters chink, Where the sun motes softly rise and sink, How we dream and link to that golden bar, The days that were and the days that are; Till the twilight softly gathers gloom Through the lengthening shades of afternoon. MY BUNGALOW. Midway between the folded hills That stretch to the sunset's glow, Where wooded heights meet greenest depths, Rises my bungalow. Across the way the redwoods climb And beckon to their fellows, Above the chaparral's low reach, And the maples' changing yellows. And near at hand where the shadows fall, Are dim and dreamy spaces, Where the gnarled arm of the bearded oak With the madrona interlaces. And here the wild bird seeks its nest, Nor dreams of lurking danger; Sheltered in this wilderness, From the footfall of the stranger. Far below the hamlet sleeps, Along a ferny canyon, Where the storm-wind heaps the drifting leaves In winter's wild abandon. 18 MY BUNGALOW. The young moon swings her slender horn, The evening wind grows bolder, And hangs a drapery of fog On Tamalpais's shoulder. The haunts of men seem far away, No sound or sense I know; But silence and a brooding peace Over my bungalow. THE FUTURE. The Past has folded back its mottled pages, and buried deep within, lie alike its triumphs and de- feats. The Present, with lidless scrutiny, stalks ever beside us, but the Future is the casket which holds the hidden gems the box of Pandora, which though sifting the ills upon a defenseless world, still nestles the rosy Hope. It is the hope that somewhere in the days to come we shall find what the Past has missed and the Present yields us not, that gives life, ofttimes, its endurance. A sly elf is Hope. She flutters her wings, and lo, the faint heart throbs with courage born again ; the dim eyes smile through their tears, and vanished power returns to the weary hand. Deep in every heart there is planted a seed that someway within itself has a little hungry longing to shoot up and be something among its fellows. The cold look askance kills it; a smile, and these little human tendrils will entwine themselves about some lofty thought, and forcing themselves, like ivy through a wall, will finally burst into bloom above the rocky surface. This little fostering smile is sympathy which rip- ples the human heart with tenderness, and, like the drop of a forest leaf into a pool when all the winds are still, spread with ever and ever widening cir- cles. Now, Hope, which teaches patience through 20 THE FUTURE. discouragements, and sympathy which shadows over imperfections with loving excuses, and beams with open approbation over our better endeavors, would together make a golden future for the clubs of woman kind. You may say it is a dream, but dreams now and then come true, and perhaps in some far away time, when the Present has become old and the Future we hope for is upon us, we shall sit again at feast in this brilliant hall with our dear President as guest. Beside a vacant chair some form may hover which, though voiceless and un- noticed, may breathe a benediction like falling fra- grance from a censor swung by unseen hands as we tell of prejudice laid low of Hope fostering in the summer sun, of sympathy and charity brooding our common life with outspread wings of peace, in fact, of dreams come true. 21 IN MEMORIAM. [Delivered at the Laurel Hall Club upon the death of William McKinley.] Upon the tablet of human destiny God has in- scribed the law that man shall die. From day to day, along the path from youth to age, we note the passing sands in the hour glass of time and know some life at its beginning, its meridian, or its ending, has passed from our earthly vision, leaving the long silence for which we mourn. The nation stands today in the shadow of a great grief, and we dumbly try to understand the Divine Will which laid its chieftain low. The banners droop above the martyred dead in the sable halls of state, while a stricken people lays its immortelles upon the quiet heart, which was gentle as a woman's, great as a king's. Though the flaming hand of anarchy wrote across the lurid sky the "mene, mene, tekel, up- harsin" of the ancients, yet purposeless the dark deed stands for the strength and wisdom of a great leader illumines the way where others may follow. As we gather about the majestic dead we can but feel that "it is not all of life to live," and that somehow, somewhere, this grand soul is living out its destiny. Patriot, statesman, martyr, well-be- loved, "requiescat in pace!" 22 IN MEMORIAM. The night falls softly on the sacred dust, and far above, beyond the malice of man, serenely the old flag floats, emblem of liberty, imperishable as the memory of him who lived for its honor and died in its cause. 23 BETSY BUMBLE. AN OLD-FASHIONED CHARACTER SKETCH. It has been long since Betsy Bumble surrendered her physical charms, to the mosses and lichens of old age. Wee and wizened she sits in the wide chimney corner and dozes and dreams in the great arm chair among the primitive surroundings that have clung about her like an old garment. Betsy believes in no new-fangled innovation. The rag carpet still adorns the floor, but is getting a little more ragged than formerly; its mottled surface reaches the ample hearth beyond which the old fire-dogs, though getting a little unsteady on the legs, still manage to support the load of fagots. When the wintry winds sweep round the ancient gables, Betsy loves to crawl to the accustomed corner and watch the flames leap higher and higher, laughing up the great throat of the chimney and making sardonic grins break forth on the fire- dogs' brazen faces. The immutable candlesticks of brass stand un- tarnished on the high mantel and gleam down on an innocent pair of snuffers. These have had good use in their day, not only as a natural extinguisher of the tallow dip, but in pointed admonition as they snuffed out the ardor of the youth who burned on after nine o'clock. Nine o'clock was the end of 24 BETSY BUMBLE. time in Betsy's household and woe betide the later- lingerer. Betsy still wears the ancestral checkered apron upon whose fading squares many a house- hold miscreant has found his Waterloo. The ruffle of the old cap stands out in starched sim- plicity still, and offers stiff affront to the mis- guided adventurer who storms with modern fusil- lade this ancient fortress of ancestral walls and relics. Betsy Bumble is growing old indeed, and, like a broken cameo in an antique setting, she sits dim-eyed and bowed with age in the great arm chair in the old, old corner and hears the world go by on the outer side of the wall that hems her garden. The one connecting link between the life that lies behind her and that whose outer limit seems but the turning of a leaf, is the modern newspaper, and to Betsy's old-fashioned ideas of morality and common sense, it is bristling with hor- rors. With trembling hand she turns the great leaf and sees with burning eyes the voluminous illustration of Mrs. Euphemia Highstepper's high tea. She sees the approach to moral disaster in the pool rooms, and "Saints defend us," still far- ther on, a vision of the last throes of moral dis- solution pass through her perturbed mind in that perversion of manly strength, that tragedy of prin- ciple, that desecration of the temple wherein God has placed the soul to shine and beautify the acts of life, the prize fight. As Betsy moralizes on all these modern evidences of so-called progress, 25 BETSY BUMBLE. her mind goes back to the bonny days of old-fash- ioned teas when people were comfortable they did not stand for three mortal hours on a sol- itary spot in the carpet and long from untold weariness of mind and body for the end of it all they sat in high-backed chairs, and knitted Jo- siah's socks or pared the juicy apple for "sass" and passed 'round sweet cider for tea. These were simple old days, but they were pure and sweet and gentle, and as Betsy looks back over these ended chapters in her life, mildewed with age, a sense of something lost forever creeps over her spirit and the checkered apron tries to play its part in molesting the unbidden tear, but the rustling paper, with its horrors, like a wintry blight touching a drop of dew, freezes it while it falls, and Betsy goes on moralizing. She passes the race of the bicycle girls the tragedy of the pool room points its own moral, but as though over-mastered, Betsy turns her per- plexed old head when it comes to the prize fight, and thinks surely the world has a "bee in its bon- net." She is very old-fashioned, is Betsy and you must make allowances for her when she wonders why the man of brawn draws the multitude and lines his pockets with gold, while the man of brain whose genius might uplift the multitude, starves in a garret, an unworthy world paying tribute to his dust long after he has ceased to need it. This strange old figure wonders, too, how the church 26 BETSY BUMBLE. deacon can reconcile his outward life and his in- ward ethics, when he, too, passes with the motley crowd within the fistic amphitheater, his eye-glass fastened close to his optic that he may not miss a point. This modern civilization is truly a per- plexing study, and to Betsy, it seems like a wheel revolving 'round to its starting point again bar- barism. This poor old land-mark, Betsy Bumble, whom time has forgotten to erase, has grown tired with it all. She smooths down the checkered apron, and leaning on the uncomplaining staff, hobbles wearily to the west window and looks out upon the garden old-fashioned, too, like the rest, with rows of hollyhocks and clusters of wall-flowers spilling their scent cups against the barricade in a sunny angle. Sunflowers, with golden crowns following in wanton coquetry, the sun Syringas, with white faces peeping through a broken lattice, and here, close at hand, a bunch of eglantine. It makes Betsy think of another bunch lying deep among some treasures in a dusty corner of the attic, where, with broken heart, she laid them many years ago. She turns again to the garden now. The slow declining sun touches with fingers of fading flame, the flower tops stretching their slender necks over the wall to say good night, and the long shadow of the well-sweep falls across a little mound, where the dandelions bloom in spring time and the grasses sway in summer. The maples sift their 27 BETSY BUMBLE. leaves upon that quiet spot when the autumn winds go by, and there winter, crossing again and again with noiseless footsteps, drops the drifting snow. All is silent in the garden now, even the winds have ceased to whisper, and, as Betsy's wistful glances fall on that quiet grave, thinking of the world's temptation, she murmurs, "It is well !" With trembling steps she totters back to the old corner; the paper lies unheeded on the floor while with bent head, falling lower and lower, Betsy drowses and dreams in the ingle. The last ray of the departing sun strikes aslant the old brass candlestick, which, bursting into sudden brightness, discloses a solitary tear lying in a furrow of Betsy's withered cheek fallen for a degenerate world. Beyond the wall busy life goes bustling by, but Betsy is asleep. We will not vex you, Betsy, with questions of our modern philosophy, you are happier than we. Drowse and dream in the ingle of olden days come back. 28 AN APRIL DAY'S REFLECTION. Some one said not long ago, "Do give us a paper on true philanthropy." Now, I realized that this was a good subject, and sat down during the lei- sure of an April afternoon and tried desperately to study it out; thinking how philanthropy was wide and deep, fed by many streams, each trying in its own way to reach the sea. With reverted vision, I followed backward the winding water-courses, seeking the source of the purest stream, and I might have found it, but suddenly, at the point of discovery, buzz ! buzz ! buzz ! went a great blue bottle against the window-pane, and, looking lo ! the bay, aflash with its thousand points of sunlight, fisher-boats aswing with the tide below, seagulls, like day's white fire-flies aswing with the winds above; wheeling and whirring, dipping and dripping, then soaring and sailing into the mists of the distance. Alcatraz, like a swan, lay asleep on the water, and beyond the soft green hills on the farther shore, lines of broken ranges loomed blue and dim and distant, and seemed to say, "Beyond and still beyond, other blue shadows dim and deep, dream in the cup-like hollows of other hills." Over all, wrinkled and sleepless that old warrior, Tam- a4pais, watched by the Western Gate. Under my window, buttercups blinked their golden eyes at the sun and through every cedar 29 AN APRIL DAY'S REFLECTION. tree near at hand the wind was switching her skirts in a most maddening fashion. Now, I ask you, how could I think of philanthropy? The only thought that obstinately came and persistently stayed, was of the beauty of the world and how we spoil it by our living. Why to us, does the mote always swim in the sunbeam and the cloud always hold a tear? Slowly, out from the beauty of a day's perfec- tion, the question floated before my mind. What is the true philosophy of living? the philosophy that makes the external world always beautiful to us and in sympathy with our various moods ? our companion in joy, our solace in grief, our hope in despair. If we listen to the pleadings of our higher nature, and let love and charity dominate our lives, bear the daily crosses, fulfill the constantly re- curring duties that are but stepping stones to a life's fruition, surely this dear old mother Earth will give us of her own again, for young, beauti- ful and tender, she is ever responsive to the har- mony of a soul that strives and conquers. Ages roll away, but, unchanging and unchangeable, in the same old fashion, century after century, na- ture opens the door of Spring and throws the flow- ers among the upland grasses, fans the earth with the summer winds, pouring over all the soft glam- our of the hills and music of water-courses, many and varied, and these riches nothing can destroy save the remorse of a sin-blighted life. Dear 30 AN APRIL DAY'S REFLECTION. friend, did you ever watch a wheat field on an April day and note, where the yellow sunshine played upon the bending grain, a shadow swiftly follow? Did you ever hear the low, sweet laugh- ter of the maple leaves at play, shade off to whispered lamentation in the pines? Did you ever do a conscious wrong that the joy of living was not marred after? Old friends, we are so human, and the human and divine are constantly warring within us for supremacy. We are such weaklings! We have our ideals and mean to do so much, but life's meas- urement is not made by our intentions. Alas ! that it were so. We let the days slip by and from hour to hour we mean to do the thing we plan, but the water forever rushes on to the sea and what we hold today may be beyond our reach to- morrow. Have we wronged a friend? We say, "To-morrow I will right the wrong," but many to-morrow's come and go, and misunderstood, her shadow may finally fall no more in familiar places, and still we have not spoken. Friend, along the lessening way, for many the hour grows late, and shadows of the coming night settle deeper upon the flagging steps. Let us strive to live as though there were no to-morrow. If we forget to speak the word that hurts, if we remember that in every creature God has made, there is some good worth the winning, if we understand that we who are surrounded by a fortress of untempted virtue are 31 AN APRIL DAY'S REFLECTION. not fitted to judge the erring, and so cease to con- demn! if we know that sometimes the worm may lie at the heart of apparently serene and upright lives, and so be not their judges, if we shelter the lowly, and though our own lives may lie along the quiet by-ways, remember that the simple fragrance of a wayside flower that blooms in the sun, may sweeten the life of the bramble that grows in the shade. If we strive to be good rather than great, as goodness lifts us into heaven and greatness stops at the open grave, surely, like a child upon its mother's breast, we may fall asleep at last. Dear friend, as the April wind sways the green curtain of the hills, I can but feel that when the grass grows over me, if I shall have made some life the better for my living, my own were not empty or useless or lost. Through the Western Gate a long line of mist creeps up, and, like a fond white arm, it throws across the bended neck of Tamalpais. One star, like a golden tear, hangs on the closing eyelids of the day, and in the swaying cedar near my window, a bird has found the true philosophy of living, for in the gathering night he still sings of love and faith unto his mate. THE CONVERSION OF AN UNBELIEVER. The old clock whose cracked loquacity told off the hours on the ancient dial, was just striking the hour of twelve, when Aunt Betsy climbed the stairs with a feeling of complacency over a well-rounded morning. It had been doughnut day with Aunt Betsy and a momentous one in the household, for Matthew, Mark, Luke and John by secret and persistent attacks upon the fruit of her labors, had managed to fill out their own waist-coats and bring about a state of garrulity from Aunt Betsy that reminded that good lady that he who gov- erned his temper was better than he that ruled a city. Aunt Betsy was a dear, quaint body of the old school, whose life had been summed up in the performance of household duties, running through the gamut of the week. From washing on Monday, though the skies fell, each day told off like a bead upon a rosary with a prayer for strength, to Saturday's cleaning, winding up with a drill on the ten commandments, and the fam- ily bath; admonitions to Matthew, Mark, Luke and John and applications of hickory ointment for the good of their souls, applied with neatness and des- patch, and spread thick with doses of dreary catechism. Dear Aunt Betsy, serene in the consciousness of accomplished good, sank into the depths of the 33 THE CONVERSION OF AN UNBELIEVER. ancient rocker and gave herself up to the restful- ness of self-abandonment. Without, it was a day of storm. A low continuous patter played upon the fallen leaves and withered weeds upon the hills, as though the wind were weeping. Low ripples ran along the tops of the summer's dying grasses, and silence fell between the birds. No sound of foot- steps in the street, and quiet in the world save moaning wind and monotone of falling rain. Within, it was a day of peace. Tabby, whose lazy length had been polished by unremitting ef- fort, purred a soft contentment and sought by a gentle clawing, to win a show of favor from Aunt Betsy, who was inwardly reviewing the backward pathway of her life, and outwardly gazing upon storm. Now, it had often been in my mind to sound Aunt Betsy upon the trend of modern times, and just now the conditions seemed favor- able for successful discussion so, quoth I, "Aunt Betsy, do you believe in women's clubs?" Aunt Betsy stiffened in a way that relegated Tabby to a far corner and the "No" that made the cap frill tremble was not to be mistaken. The husking bee and the quilting party were far better clubs in her eyes, and the glamour of the departed Dutch oven and spinning wheel filled her mind with a golden glory that no modern ill-smelling gas stove and noisy sewing machine could dissipate. For a woman to lift her voice in a crowded assembly was a disgrace not to be tolerated in her day, and the 34 THE CONVERSION OF AN UNBELIEVER. girl who went gid-gadding off to clubs to show her smart frock and drink tea with lime juice in it, would better be home stringing peppers. It was plain to be seen that Aunt Betsy was getting wound up and that my instinct as to this being a propitious occasion had been misleading. So, gently as we sing a child to sleep, through the pauses of the rain, I told Aunt Betsy the story of a little club I knew and how its influence upon women had been good. How it was cradled in the old Hall whose great square sides each faced some beauty in nature that stirred the heart. East, the lowlands starred with spring forget- me-nots, sloped to the bay, across whose shining waters, forever and ever beckoned the blue moun- tains. The goodnight glint of the sun illumined some western slope beyond our ken. Northward the dark laurels stood and listened for the foot- steps of the wind, then leaned and whispered mys- teries of that life we longed to enter. Southward, the redwoods stood on some far hill, emblems of the strength and greatness we sometime hoped to attain. Thus from meadow, tree-top and hill always came the same song of life, life, life. Aunt Betsy heard how one day a bevy of girls in the old corridor formed the nucleus of a club, we per- petuated later on, as matrons, and which we have grown to love and need. Round it cluster women who give it their helpful thought and rich intel- ligence. We need each other. We are helped by 35 THE CONVERSION OF AN UNBELIEVER. the reflected light of stronger spirits than our own, and we travel the highway of life gathering sweet- ness from songs that are sung by others. "Aunt Betsy," quoth I, "there seems nothing sadder in life than to travel the backward path toward childhood and find nothing but broken mile- stones or the dead ashes of fires long since gone out ; no wayside flower that blooms from the seed we planted. No common life lifted a little way heaven-ward from a note we dropped from a summer song in passing. In this prosy work-a- day world how many can look back where the childish feet have stepped over the border of school days and find that life has fulfilled its hopes ? The waves that play about our feet to-day break on a far off shore to-morrow. The locust- balm that fills the garden of our youth, sweetens some life that is not our own. The fruit that hangs untouched by storm, to the earth falls em- bittered, and lips that have uttered the fondest endearments pass into the long silence at the jour- ney's end with oft scarce the memory of a kiss. On the common ground where mind meets mind and thoughts are voiced for our own and others' good, a light may reach the fountain where tears lie deep and illumine it with smiles. The wilder- ness may bloom for those who never knew the perfume of a flower, and the body that bends with toil to the ground, may find a soul that soars above the clouds." 36 THE CONVERSION OF AN UNBELIEVER. Tabby opened her jaws and yawned, and Aunt Betsy lulled by the low sound of the soughing wind and the monotony of my voice had wandered off to dreamland and was settling the vexed ques- tion of clubs with the sandman. I looked at the worn, old face and the patient fingers lying still, and thought how much energy of Aunt Betsy's life had been wasted in pots and pans and patches, and if the old garments that hung among the raft- ers in the attic, long since given over to the moths and the dust, could speak, how many tender and beautiful thoughts that were woven in with the needle's thrust, might have found a home in somebody's heart. Just here Aunt Betsy stirred. "I have dreamed a dream of a battle," she said, "a great war was being waged in the world between an army of but- tons and an army of thoughts. The buttons fought fast and furiously, but senseless and inert, they could not reproduce themselves, but the thoughts grew and grew and overshadowed the world. I see, my dear, I have been the button-woman, and my kind is passing away. Time silhouettes the coming change on the tottering steps of the dying age. I shall be remembered as the dear old mother who kept the hearth-stone bright, but now I think I should like to be revered for something better," and she gazed wistfully off to the low hills where the white tents of the soldiers gleamed, and over the mounds where "life's fitful fever over," 37 THE CONVERSION OF AN UNBELIEVER. dreamed the sleepers who never waken. "Build your community of clubs, my dear, live in it, and grow upward and outward into the sunlight. It will be better so; I am the old mother who has lived in the shadow of little things." There is a single spot of blue growing bigger where the clouds divide, and above the sound of the flying wind is heard, the old clock on the stairs solemnly striking the hour of five. "Well," said Aunt Betsy, the ruling passion strong in death, "It is time to put the kettle on." OVER THE MOUNTAINS. There are outings and outings, many and varied, from the primitive camp, where simplicity and lazy content go hand in hand, down through all the intervening grades of summering to the ultra-fashionable seaside resort, where style and gayety spread and sparkle with eager restlessness, but is there any outing that is more satisfactory than a first trip over the mountains, over and down into the gray wastes beyond, known as Nevada ? As we climb up the great slopes the mind ex- periences an elation that soon grows into a buoy- ancy almost painful at the gradually unfolding beauties of the upper altitudes. Heaven seems no further away than the crowded tree-tops that beckon and whisper and sing to each other away up there above our heads, and playfully fret the flying brook by dropping cones upon its spray- flecked lips. The flowers spill their fragrance on the air and bloom and bloom on every sunny slope, and peep their heads from every rocky crevice on the heights until nature no longer affords them a foothold on her battlements and they creep back to find an asylum where the ever tender moss en- circles the gnarled roots of the old forest trees. The dying summer sifts through the air the spice needles of the pines, and so covers them from 39 OVER THE MOUNTAINS. sight, while the delicate banners of fern wave over them in tremulous sympathy their lacy fab- rics of green. And now Nature, the yearning mother who still longs to hold the hearts of her children, stars, like an afterglow, the open spaces with rich browns and yellows and the tell-tale blush of leaves at the frost's familiar touch. Down in the gorge the tumbling rivulet shows a laughing face and through shimmer and shadow darts in and out and down, and away, until, when the day has gone and stars have come, it lays its weary head upon some gentle river's breast, and falls asleep among the reeds in some distant meadow. All the air seems to pulsate with some low vibrations of sound, of mingled whir of wing, stir of leaf, drop of cone, stealthy movement of some mottled snake, tinkle of hidden rill, and every now and then, as if accenting the mellowed measures of the open day, the quail pipes out and the plaintive dove sobs away its grief in the shadow of some leafy tree. Overhead the clouds sail by and over the bending pine-tops and by our over- strained sense we can hear them dip their oars in the ocean of blue as they sail away, away to the Unknown Land. Oh, how beautiful it all is and just as we are wondering if earth is all like this, suddenly the mind receives a shock, and we find ourselves standing on the verge of a desert to our excited fancy limitless and as silent as space. Only one who has traveled through Nevada, can 40 OVER THE MOUNTAINS. understand the contrast that is incomprehensible to a stranger, between the barrenness of that deso- late country and the magnificent beauty of the mountains that hedge the desert like an outer wall of perennial green. God seems to have ceased to smile the streams shrink away and hide themselves in the sands low groups of hills raise themselves brokenly and vanish in the dis- tance as if pursued. Years ago I visited friends who lived in Nevada many miles inland from the railroad and shall never forget the impressions made by that trip. The country was new to me then and the spell of the mountains just passed was still sufficiently strong to make the contrast more glaring and painful. We drove through stretches of waste that seemed endless. Sand, sand, everywhere, and the silence! Oh, I thought if I could only hear the rustle of a blade of corn or catch the drowsy tinkle of a cow-bell in the old home-meadow, how much it would allay the suffocating sense of home- sickness, but without a sound through a vast and empty world we sped away. Alkaline patches lifted their white faces now and then from the desert, as if appealing from such a destiny. Once a grim-looking coyote showed his hungry length about a rod away, but man was such an unfamil- iar object that even to him, he aroused no sense of fear, but leisurely trotted aside into the brush. By nightfall we reached our journey's end, the 41 OVER THE MOUNTAINS. house of "mine host" being in a narrow valley which had suddenly opened as though to give us shelter. Perched high up on a rocky ledge were seen the houses of the operatives of a mine which we visited the following day. It was such a com- fort to know there was another mountain in the world, and that trees grew upon it, although they were poor, stunted, thirsty things, long since put out of countenance by the sun, who never took his glaring eye off them except to let night drop her tears of comfort. The following day by a zigzag course, we reached the mine which was the ultima thule of our expedition. As we stood on a leveled prom- ontory, behind us were mingled in inarticulate sound the hurrying of feet, hum of voices, and. the boom of the mill, while before us spread a silent picture that has never been effaced through all the changing panorama of place and circum- stance. Our extreme line of vision seemed in that clear atmosphere to stretch a hundred miles away, while along the far intervening distance ran a lofty chain of hills, and meeting it transversely another chain, the whole forming a gigantic cross about whose varied cones and hollows played the opalescent tints of declining day rose melting into amethyst and amethyst catching the shimmer of the golden heat that still lay in the valleys be- tween. Even while I looked, upon this changing cross began the crucifixion of the Day, and then: 42 OVER THE MOUNTAINS. Along the vivid borders of the sunset lands A tremor passed, and wandering groups Of clouds low-poised themselves Above Earth's western hills, and swept The pathway at the sunset gate With the tremulous fringings of their drapery. Fair forms with hair of burnished gold Were there floating wide upon the wind Their tresses, and rolling fold on fold Of rich-wrought lace against the rare Vermilion robes of those Who strayed from realms impassioned, Meek and sad, with pale hands folded, And eyelids drooped with tears. Some cloudlets wandered in, and stood Behind the others, their creamy vests Just tinged, like foam within a pink sea-shell By the reflection. Some in cars of sea-pearl, Flung wide their flaunting scarfs, And halted in their whirling flight, Throughout the farther heaven To be present at the burial. The King was dead and buried; Slowly one by one the vast procession Drew up their fluttering robes, whose hue Was all swept out to ashen grey Gave one last look and silently departed. Faded into dreamy indistinctness Among the realms of space, and lonely left The sepulchre in the sunset lands. So the vision passed, and as Evening tiptoed over the mountain-top, she softly dropped the shadows upon the grave of the dead day and climbing aloft 43 OVER THE MOUNTAINS. hung out her golden lamps by whose light we de- scended into the valley. That was years ago, but often a tint in the sun- set, the haze over a summer field, or a young moon shaking out the golden drops of stars upon the closing eyelids of the day will bring back that gigantic cross stretching itself in the limitless desert, and make a picture that like a lost sunbeam among the accumulated scenes of passing time turns to gold again the edge of fading recollection. 44 THE CRITIC'S GUILLOTINE. It is not an easy matter at a breakfast given here, To have as is expected, the wisdom of a seer. But though my chosen words may be neither wise nor witty, For future generations, just listen to my ditty Of what befalls a woman, which plainly may be seen, When she attempts the conquest of the critic's guillotine. In the silence of the midnight when the rain is on the roof, And the sounds of life and laughter from the dark- ness stand aloof, We seek the dusty attic, and with labored pen and brain Prepare some mighty treatise that shall fire the world again; Forgetting that the critic with a high and lordly mien Is stalking forth at midnight with his little guil- lotine. In the same old-fashioned manner since first the world began, We evolute a theory on the "Origin of Man;" We fancy we are saviors of a much benighted race, And put the scheme on paper, not omitting time or place, 45 THE CRITIC'S GUILLOTINE. Expecting that the masses we shall certainly en- snare ; But the critic with his literary guillotine is there. In questions problematical, woman plunges with a will; And in all things deep and weighty, she never keepeth still. She tells in lines "ad libitum" through many a lengthening page, How the youth became a barber when he might have been a sage. But when on the city editor she lays this heavy tax; She meets the sleepless critic with his literary axe. In political economy woman stands beside the man, Ever ready at his elbow to suggest a better plan. Throughout the scale of knowledge from philos- ophy to dough, There's really not a single thing that a woman doesn't know. But let her try to prove it with headlines rare and racy, And the literary guillotine consigns to rest "in pace." There is oft decreed to women the most unhappy fate, To miss the opportunity that might have made her great. THE CRITIC'S GUILLOTINE. When the storms of coming winter, beat against the window-pane; We climb with slower footsteps the attic stairs again, And from the dusty corner where the spider spins its web, We resurrect our offspring from the chambers of the dead. We muse on all the glory departed with the years, When our rejected article was buried deep with tears ; And the spider stops its spinning and the dust for- gets to settle, As we mournfully remember how we stood upon our mettle, When the thistles of our fancy and the flowers that grew between, Were leveled by the critic with his little guillotine. Now all the lady toasters who are gathered here this day To celebrate a breakfast in a most unusual way; If you wish your witty sayings exploited to the nation, See that the City Editor's away on his vacation Else in to-morrow's columns where you hoped you might be seen, You'll read "A Literary Slaughter by the Critic's Guillotine." 47 AN ALASKAN OUTING. The good steamer Queen moved out of San Francisco harbor the 3ist of May, bearing a passenger who was divided between smiles and tears over a long anticipated trip. The family were all drawn up in solemn array as though South Africa were involved, and friends with flowers and books wished me a pleasant journey. The day was beautiful and the fog which had been so much dreaded was accommodating enough to keep in the background. As the old Queen swung slowly out of sight, faint and fainter grew the fluttering of handker- chiefs. I could dimly descry my home lying off among the shore hills; presently, with a little homesick feeling, this, too, was blotted out. Through the Golden Gate past Points Bonita and Reyes, and we ran into a wild sea, the waves lashing themselves into great billows of foam which the wind swirled off into rings of rainbow. The steamer at times seemed to stand still on the crest of a wave, then took a header that argued ill for any sea-sick temperaments. This was all magnificent, but to a novice, somewhat terrifying. Only one lady appeared at table for a day and a half. The Captain declared it was as "smooth as a mill-pond," but a lady with her child who were both drenched to the skin with spray while 48 AN ALASKAN OUTING. sitting in their stateroom, thought the mill-pond a little rough. As all things finally come to an end, we ran into smoother water up the coast and from that on, the journey became one unalloyed pleasure. The trip between here and Seattle is too familiar to most of you to need any elaboration, so I shall pass it by beyond describing a picture that impressed me greatly. One late afternoon, I saw the wester- ing sun pass from a clouded heaven and through a clear strip of saffron sky, slowly disappear be- low the rim of the ocean. Far away on the waters a solitary sail stood in the afterglow and seemed like a vision of the Valkyria of the Norseland with its freight of human souls setting its prow toward Valhalla. No other object appeared on that vast expanse of the deep, and though the hour was lonely and I was far from home, nothing could quench the exultation and freedom of spirit of that hour. June the 4th, we left Seattle by the Cottage City outward bound for Skagway; and here began the passage of those wonderful inland waters that could no more be faithfully described than the changing colors of a kaleidoscope. For five days we steamed ahead through Puget Sound, Gulf Georgia, Seymore Narrows, Queen Char- lotte's Sound, Greenville Channel, Millbank Sound, Dickson's Entrance, Wrangle Narrows, and Lynn Canal, which by the way, is a natural 49 AN ALASKAN OUTING. body of water and not artificial as its name would imply. There are besides many passages and straights that I cannot recall. Each one of these might stand alone for its distinctive beauty. As we leave Victoria, the waters are wide and fringed with hills that stand purplish blue in the afterglow of sunset, snow-ridges rising brokenly behind them. These give way to nearer shores and higher mountains densely wooded to the water's edge and we glide in and out among number- less low green islands, with here and there a light- house to blazon the danger at night, their red roofs glowing like embers among the trees. These, too, vanish and we pass into a narrow opening where the eddies and whirlpools dance as the tide rushes through. We watch the waves foaming over the surface rocks not far away. This open- ing is called Seymore Narrows, and navigation here is considered very difficult and dangerous. Wrangle Narrows is another very trying passage to a pilot, as the channel has to be indicated by buoys placed along its entire length. The steam- er's course is changed every four minutes and a variation of but a few feet would cause disaster. They are seldom attempted at night and many captains wait for a rising tide. We saw an old wreck at the entrance, raising its storm-beaten hulk as a warning to adventurous or unskillful captains. So the wide bodies of water kept nar- rowing to smaller ones, in and out for days, with so AN ALASKAN OUTING. higher mountains and nearer shores, and waterfalls plunging from the heights to the sea, until the les- sening timber, and great headlands of rock inwhose deep fissures and seamy edges the storms had hung their fringes of snow, showed that we were get- ting into the country where Vulcan forged the thunder-bolts. All along the way from first to last we passed strange objects of interest. Now and then the straight white houses of an Indian Mission. Now and then an Indian graveyard close against the water, with weird totem poles as monuments to the dead. Now a cannery, then a lonely logger's cabin with the wooded mountains behind it throw- ing their long dense shadows far out from the shore. Sometimes a solitary boat would push out from the green shade for a moment, then into the cool shadows disappear again and all would be still except the pulse of the engine which, with never-ending throbbing, beat the time away. One day as we steamed for hours through a sea of glass, the heart full and the spirit softened by these wondrous beauties, what seemed to be a long green island appeared in front of us. As we approached, it became two islands and in the space between, a great snow peak shot up into the sky. The hour was sunset aflame with color, and look- ing over the prow of the boat, they all swung with inverted image in the depths below. As we glided on into the night and into a different water-way, 51 AN ALASKAN OUTING. great masses of ominous clouds gathered across the crags that finger-like pierced the sky and were touched here and there by the weird and silver light of a waxing moon. In between these passing objects lay the towns which hold commercial intercourse with the out- side world, and at many of their wharves the Cot- tage City discharged her freight. We visited Ket- chikan, a queer little mining town with an Indian name, Camp Hattie, a picturesque little place with a board walk leading through the pines up to the newly opened mine, and ferns bursting from every nook and cranny along the way, Old Fort Wrangle, with its totem poles and Indian women sitting in the sun selling baskets, and Juneau, which is beautifully located at the foot of precipitous cliffs. Many of the houses are built on elevations which have to be approached by long steps. There is great rivalry between Juneau and Douglas City opposite, which contains the Treadwell mine, the largest in the world. We were fortunate enough to be able to visit it during the noon hour when the miners were not at work. The Treadwell mine is as much like a Dante's Inferno as anything you could imagine. It is really a gigantic quarry, commencing at the top of the mountain far above you and like a great upright funnel, terminating in a great hole far below you. From the middle dis- tance, the level from which visitors view the mine, 52 AN ALASKAN OUTING. long flights of stairs lead down to the opening which is like a mouth opening to swallow you up. Down these stairs the miners file one by one and circling around the opening disappear down lad- ders placed within. The Treadwell mine has a capacity of a thou- sand stamps, and eight hundred and sixty were in operation the day we visited it. As thirty stamps constitute a large mine, you can readily judge the capacity of this, but can have a very faint idea of the noise produced. The blasting strikes the cliffs behind Juneau, and is echoed from wall to wall like deafening peals of thunder. We visited Tonga, a salmon cannery, built in the shadow of a great mountain. An Oakland milliner was act- ing in the capacity of cook at $50.00 a month, and seemed to enjoy the change, although she was the only woman in the place. As we looked through the old-fashioned window at the boarding house, a picture was framed by mountains dark with pines; two bright red boats were drawn against a cluster of Indian huts and a mountain torrent rushed swiftly past to the sea. Beyond it all, swung the wide circle of the mountain-locked harbor with a snowy ridge closing the entrance. It is a peculiar fact that this inland passage is so tortuous that whenever you glide into a harbor the mountains swing after you, or perhaps an island looms where you seemingly passed a moment be- fore. It is always there, this closed portal, and S3 AN ALASKAN OUTING. nature's sentry with mysterious fingers unlocks the gate of mountains, a low green island or towering crag, and swiftly and silently it opens before you while he hides the key in the casket of the deep. From Wrangle Narrows we suddenly burst into a vision of the Arctic, and from Juneau steamed for eight hours through the Lynn Canal which is by far the grandest part of the trip, as it is the last before reaching Skagway. It has a wild and fantastic grandeur impossible to describe. Stu- pendous masses of rock and earth raise themselves in snowy ridges, straight from the water's edge; here and there the green-blue of a glacier shows it- self. It may lie in a crater-like formation among the crags, or, river-like, may stretch away for miles, en- circling in its icy arms solitary peaks which tower in lonely grandeur above its frozen waves. As it moves slowly on to the sea, there are constantly breaking masses, to float away as icebergs and men- ace navigation in the late summer. I saw as many as ten or twelve of these icebergs at one time lying off in a little cove to the left of us. After an eight hours' run from Juneau, or five days from Seattle, we reached Skagway, a busy little town situated in a narrow valley at the head of the Lynn Canal and completely walled in by perpendicular cliffs and mountains. It follows in a straggling sort of way the winding course of the Skagway River for about a mile and a half up the valley, as though trying to lose itself. It has fine 54 AN ALASKAN OUTING. wharves which extend but about a mile into the water, and is the port of entry for the Klondike. It has some pretentious buildings, but shows the effect of the passing on of its people, for the lit- tle log cabins of the early gold hunters stand empty and forgotten among the neat cottages of the more permanent settlers. It must be remem- bered that from Skagway to Lake Bennett is the land connection between two great water-ways, one lying between Seattle and Skagway and the other between Bennett and the Klondike with this con- necting link of land in between. In order to pass from one water-way to the other, a great ridge had to be crossed by trail; this ridge was known as the Summit, and the trails that lead to it wound through two narrow defiles in the mountains known as the Chilkoot and White Passes; the former starting from Dyea and the latter from Skagway. The Chilkoot Pass was abandoned in favor of White Pass, as being less difficult to accomplish (Chilkoot avalanche). The site of Skagway where the first landing was made, was a great forest and this had to be leveled to build temporary homes and bridges. Then began the march of the first thousand men over the summit, cutting their way through almost unsurmountable difficulties. Through the long days of the short summer and the icy snow blasts of the early win- ter, the men toiled and wept, for it was no un- common thing to see strong men discouraged and 55 AN ALASKAN OUTING. broken in spirit by hardship, weeping like children along the line. Nor were these the only sufferers, for many of their poor pack animals were either killed outright by falling over the edge of the trail, or so maimed by slipping on the moss-cov- ered rocks, that they had to be killed or were left to die. This trail has become famous in history as the Dead Horse Trail, as 2,000 dead horses were found on it between Skagway and Bennett in the spring of 1900. The distance is but forty miles. I walked five miles over it and saw bones still whitening in the sun. Just where the trail begins the ascent from Skagway, is a desolate cluster of log cabins, which bespeak the early struggle. All is silent except when the wind sways the weeds growing out of the crevices in the roofs, or whistles mournfully through the broken windows. It is called by the euphonious name of Liarsville. As each jaded pedestrian inquired the distance to the summit, he was told a different tale; hence, the name. I suppose each one gauged the distance from his individual weariness. At the extreme end of the town, lies the pathetic little cemetery of Skagway. It has one preten- tious monument among the few small headstones and many little painted boards that caution you to tread lightly. It was erected by subscription to the memory of a Mr. Reed, who headed a vig- ilance committee to rid the town of a gang of out- laws, led by a man called Soapy Smith. They were 56 AN ALASKAN OUTING. both killed and this granite shaft rises on a spot near the wild Skagway River that rushes on its swift and stormy way. From a cliff in the back- ground, Deed's Falls plunge through a gorge and striking the broken rocks at the bottom, babble through the ferns and roots of leaning trees away through the little cemetery and past the sleeper, whose death justified the inscription, "He gave his life for the honor of Skagway." Soapy Smith lies buried in some obscure corner, few remembering where and none caring. An Alaskan summer is weird and unnatural, but full of varied enchantment. Hours and hours go by and you wait for the darkness which never falls. You glance at the clock which says ten o'clock and think it ought to be time to go to bed. Out of the window it is broad daylight and out- ing parties are just starting out with wraps and luncheon, bound for some adjacent lake; the chil- dren play in the street and not a star is visible. You begin to feel that Nature in this country has turned things topsy-turvy. Between eleven and twelve a twilight settles, through which objects are still dis- tinct, and perhaps one or two planets glimmer faintly in a pale sky. At half past twelve you realize that it is lighter than a moment before, and at two o'clock the morning sun strikes the moun- tain peaks. I was in Skagway nearly a month and saw but three stars, and it wasn't because I was asleep, for I believe people hibernate there in the 57 AN ALASKAN OUTING. winter and stay awake all summer. Rains fall frequently, which nobody seems to mind, and keep the country beautifully green with moss and a tender little weed, with green needles growing along a stem, called ice-plant. This grows abun- dantly in the streets and about the old stumps that stand everywhere as though protesting against the destruction of the forest. The Alaskan tree is a wonder to behold, for it spreads its roots spider-like on the tops of the rocks, and grows straight and strong with appar- ently not a handful of soil. Ferns grow in every va- cant place and wild roses, dogwood, long stemmed violets, like our English violets, spring from every moist spot and fill the air with fragrance. As the summer advances, all Skagwaygoes berrying, for the most delicious huckleberries, raspberries, currants and cranberries grow among the rocks and on every mountain side. All the jams and jellies in Alaska are made from this wild fruit. People are settling down to cultivate gardens, and the vegetables that mature during the short sum- mer are unsurpassed. The singing bird is rather rare in Alaska, but the country is filled with ravens, whose harsh cry floats down from the peaks against whose whiteness their black forms drift to and fro. In one respect Alaska is like Ireland, for it has no snakes, and dangerous crawling insects are also unknown, but the mosquito is a mammoth that makes up for other deficiencies. 58 AN ALASKAN OUTING. The omnipresent tramp who flourishes else- where is not found so far north. In the first place, he cannot walk there; and once there, he cannot get out over the endless mountains. The amusements of the people of Skagway are principally outings to places of interest; many visit the adjacent glaciers, notably Davidson's and Law- ton's, but as these are always difficult and danger- ous to reach, I did not attempt the trip, but rather chose two midnight excursions which were certainly unusual. On one of these, four of us with three children accompanied by a solitary dog for pro- tection, started with short skirts, walking-sticks and luncheon, at half past nine in the so-called even- ing for a lake two or three miles away. A straight climb of eight hundred or a thousand feet over a zigzag trail, and now and then a trembling cor- duroy bridge brought us at midnight to a beau- tifully green artificial lake at the top of the per- pendicular bluff flanking Skagway. The mountain rose straight and dark with pines behind it, while still beyond, here and there sharp peaks shrouded in snow, looked over their great shoulders on to the lake below. A roaring waterfall rushed from the dense woods at the back and dropped to the lake which overflowed on the opposite side and through straight walls of rock, rushed like some mad thing and found rest in the placid waters of the Lynn Canal. The hush of that mysterious twilight was about us. Through the pines in the foreground 59 AN ALASKAN OUTING. we could descry Skagway, lying far below, asleep, with here and there a light like a fallen star; while across Lynn Canal, the raven with discordant cry and outspread wings, drifted across the blue- green wall of a glacier; an Alaskan Matterhorn pierced the mists that wreathed its spire and the colossal figure of Face Mountain from its coverlet of snow and earth gazed with sightless eyes into the solitude of the upper air. As we watched, a flush passed over the great snowy head of the polar bear, the leaves trembled in the woods twilight had stolen away and the dawn had come without a night. I shall never forget the weird sublimity of that hour. By seven o'clock our camp fire was out and we were on the trail through the forest to the lake which was our objective point. I could write on and on of these scenes, but I know you must be getting weary. What impresses one in Alaska is its vastness and solitude and the great possibilities of the unex- plored country. The Indian as I found him had little of the picturesque, that has passed away with the advent of the Mission and civilization. Only at the barbaric feast called the Potlatch, do Natives appear in all their old-time glory. They wear their most costly and gorgeous trappings at this feast, and the dance consists of a frenzy of gestures and wild evolutions accompanied by hoarse cries, which cease only when exhausted. The Potlatch has a special significance and means the giving 60 AN ALASKAN OUTING. away of one's goods; each one tries to outdo his brother in this respect, and the old chief is ofttimes nearly stripped of his earthly possessions when the Potlatch is over. The spirit engendered is sug- gestive of self-sacrifice and good-will. This bar- baric feast is fast passing away, and in time will be but a myth. Basket weaving, and carving, are of course the chief occupation of the Indians, and the curio shops are filled with the handiwork of these interesting people. Skagway is a fine place to pick up old coppers and brasses belonging to the early Russian settlers. The day before departing for home we took a trip over the summit of the White Pass to Lake Bennett by way of the W. P. & Y. railroad, which has superseded the old trail and wagon road. It is a wonderful road, built and operated by an English syndicate, and must have been blasted out of solid rock most of the way. It is a bewildering trip of curve and chasm, always up, up, with the scent of the wild roses and unseen violets at your feet mingling with the breath of the glacier, until the snow begins to lie below you, and you are on a level with many of the mountain crests. The wild Skagway River winds like a faint thread far below to the Lynn Canal, which glitters between the ridges miles away. At the foot of the pass a few deserted cabins stand, with stretches of ruined corduroy. A great silence broods over the spot; the struggles, disap- pointments and successes of those who slept beneath 61 AN ALASKAN OUTING. these roofs and dreamed of home, in the early morning, entering the narrow defile of the ascent, many of them never to emerge from it, are sung by the wild river as it speeds away to the sea. Once over the summit and we are soon at Lake Bennett. The magician's wand has surely been employed here, for in 1900, ten thousand people lived by its cheerless wind-swept shores. It was called the city of tents ; to-day not more than twen- ty-five constitute its inhabitants. It is simply an eat- ing station on the White Pass road. The city has passed on. We were back in Skagway in a few hours, and the following day embarked on the Dolphin for home, which was sighted again after an absence of nearly seven weeks. Now, often as I hear the tramp of passing feet, and realize the haste and presure of a great city, I long again for the peace and solitude of the weird north country. The west wind blows in at my window, bringing in a dream the balm and spices of the Orient with the voices of its multitudes, but no charm lies there. Rather the fierce "taku" as it sweeps through the mountain passes singing the wild song of the crags and waterfalls, and breathing the odor of unseen violets through the mysterious twilight of an Alaskan summer when the dawn comes without a night. 62 UCSB LIBRARY X- A 000631 is""